Blue
by pinkpearl89
Summary: She distinctly remembers other colors being a part of her wardrobe – reds, plums, greens – and yet, when she looks down, all she sees is blue.
1. Blue

Hello everyone!

This is my first attempt at Prison Break fanfic, so I hope you enjoy :)

xxxxx

Sara stares down the contents of her duffel and wonders when, exactly, she started wearing so much _blue_.

She distinctly remembers other colors being a part of her wardrobe – reds, plums, greens – and yet, when she looks down, all she sees is blue. Holding back a sigh with the knowledge that she's lucky to have her own clothes at all, she is, nevertheless, stuck. Because the picture being broadcast of her all across the country is of her in blue, and she was sent back to change with the simple instructions of wearing anything but. Apparently, something as simple as a different color was enough to make recognizing a person more difficult.

Sara had been about to argue. After all, the human brain was a complex organ that could certainly recognize a face without the aid of consistent coloring. But arguing with Michael was useless and she was sure that he must have researched the claim, so here she was instead, glaring into a duffel full of clothes that were utterly useless at the moment. Sure, she would be happy and comfortable in her clothes once they got to Panama, but right now she was out of options.

The sigh fought its way out as an angry shudder. If he had known she would need something else, why hadn't he grabbed it while he was performing the stupid and needlessly dangerous task of getting her clothes from her apartment?

She whirled at the knock on the door, suppressing her newfound habit of picking up the heaviest object. They were safe, for now, and it was Michael's voice that came muffled through anyway. Although that didn't necessarily mean she voided the idea of hitting him with something heavy.

His face held tension and concern when she let him in. "You haven't changed yet?"

Blowing out a deep breath, she had to suppress the urge to hit him again. "Everything's blue."

"No," he said, crossing the carriage in two strides and bending over the bag, "no, I remember grabbing that one pink—"

"PINK?" She shrieked before coming back to her senses and taking a deep breath. When had she ever bought anything pink anyway? "I don't own pink, Michael, you—"

But he came back up with a pink tee dangling from his fingers. At least he had the decency to blush. "I know you don't like it, but it was the only thing in your closet that wasn't blue or green."

That shirt was from a lifetime ago, although it didn't show much on the garment itself. It was just as vividly pink as the day her father bought it for her. Thinking of the irony that her father was helping in her escape, even in this tiny way, she had to stifle a giggle.

"What?"

"Nothing, give it to me and turn around."

Swapping shirts quickly, Sara tossed the dirty one back into the duffel. Still completely blue.

"I'm done."

He turned back around to face her and she admitted it to herself. Blue was her new favorite color. Still, she was determined to find two or three other things when she got down to Panama, just for the sake of having them.

"It looks good."

"I don't need to look good, Michael, I need to look like someone else."

A small smirk tugged at his mouth as he played with her new locks. "You look like the hottest sorority girl I've ever seen."

"Shut. Up."

"Alpha Mu, really? You never told me about that."

"Not the type of thing that usually comes up in a doctor's office."

That sobered him immediately, and she was instantly contrite. Another part of her, though,_ liked_ knowing that she could put him off his guard.

His eyes were flat as he turned back towards the door. "Grab your bag, we're switching trains within the hour."

Bending to zip up the bag, she was surprised when she didn't hear the sound of the sliding door. His steely blue gaze was on her when she stood.

"I'm so sorry, Sara."

"You don't have to keep saying it, Michael."

"Really?" He asked, scrubbing a hand over his face, "Because I feel like I can't say it enough."

She stepped to him and pulled his hand from his face. Blue. So much blue. She couldn't imagine wanting to see any other color ever again.

"You came back for me. Actions speak louder than words."

He caught her hand before she let him go. "That wasn't just because I was sorry."

"I know," she told him simply, "but it still counts."


	2. The Freudian Implcations of Coffee

Hello! This is another little one-shot that sort of the follows the storyline I started with Blue. I've decided that I'll post any future oneshots to this story for neatness and simplicity, whenever inspiration strikes. I hope you enjoy!

xxxxxx

"I used to dream about it a lot."

Sara turned to where he laid on the couch, his eyes trained directly on her with all their intensity. "About what?" She asked, reaching for the remote. She turned the sound down before deciding to just switch it off completely. She wasn't in the mood for an overdramatic Spanish soap opera anyway.

"Well, more daydream, really," he clarified, more to himself than her, she thought. "The subconscious stuff was harder to control."

"Okay," she answered, leaving him to realize that he hadn't answered her question. He would work it out eventually, probably today, and in the meantime she wanted something cool to drink. He had promised her breezy Panamanian afternoons in a hammock, but he hadn't mentioned the stifling midday and she was already parched.

"How we might have met outside. "

So it was today after all.

"We were going to run into each other at Caribou one day. You were going to spill your coffee all over me."

"Hardly," she snorted, offended at her imagined clumsiness even though she thought he was being rather sweet. "You would have been the one to spill all over me."

He smiled. "At least it would have given me an excuse to get your number, so I could pay for the dry-clean."

"And then what?" She smirked, knowing her husband like the back of her hand, "I don't charm easily over the phone."

"No?"

"If you didn't have those eyes on you, Scofield, your life would have been a lot harder."

"Hmm, good thing I made an impression by spilling all over you then," he reminded her. "By the way, you would have made a remark about the Freudian implications."

"I'm not that forward."

"No, but you would have tried to find humor in a frustrating situation."

She glanced at him just in time to see his eyes change from mischievous to admiring. "Alright, so you've managed to phone-flirt and bring me my dry-cleaning in an entirely unthreatening way. Now what?"

"Oh, the rest of the fantasies consist of picnics at Millenium where I dazzle you with my sheer genius."

"Uh-huh."

"Then I take you home to my fancy apartment with my fancy king-size bed and make love to you until you've forgotten your own name."

"Uh-_huh_," she snorted sarcastically.

He grinned. "You know I can."

"Not the point."

"What is?"

"I don't like picnics."

"We go on beach picnics all the time."

"Beach picnics are different to grass picnics."

"How so?"

"I'm not allergic to sand."

He laughed. "Alright, I will change my old fantasy to a picnic at North Ave."

"We're still going to have mind-blowing sex?"

"Absolutely."

"On the beach?"

"No, I like my fancy king-size bed."

"So snobby," she teased.

"I married the governor's daughter, what did you expect?"

"Not on purpose."

"That just proves my point," he gave her a lazy smile from the couch. "I'm naturally attracted to the finer things in life."

That pulled a smile from her even though she didn't want it to. It always amazed her that Michael was able to look at her, knowing all the mistakes she'd made, and still think so highly of her.

Then again, it occurred to her that she did the same for him.

Still smiling, she brought her drink over to the low table and curled up under his arm. She lazily drew over his other arm for a few minutes before sitting up and swatting him playfully.

"You lied."

He raised a challenging brow at her. "Did I?"

"You said I would spill the coffee."

Blue flashed away from her and reached for the remote. "Are you still on that? I already conceded your point and changed it to me."

"Yes. _Exactly_."

He still wasn't looking at her. She clasped her hand around his to make him stop flipping through channels.

"You had that version all planned out, all the way up to the _Freudian implications_ and the dry-cleaning," she smiled mischievously.

He finally looked back at her, his cheeks flushed. "What's your point?"

"One," she said, holding up her fingers, "do you always daydream about dirtying women's clothes? And two, it's your turn to do the laundry."

He flushed more deeply but still managed to answer. "Just _your_ clothes, Dr. Tancredi. And I believe I still have to get them dirty."

She smiled. "When will that happen?"

"When there's no danger of dying from heat stroke."

Laughing, she went to get more water. "Fair enough, let me know when you think it's safe for me to start the coffee."


End file.
